This is How You Lose Her
by Lasgalendil
Summary: Renee Montoya is one of DC's best female characters, but got left out of Nolan's gritty reboot. It's time we stopped the homophobia and misogyny when it comes to writing women. What does life look like for a struggling gay latina in Sin City? Montoya's story, set in Nolanverse.
1. Chapter 1

So this was how fucked up her life was, yeah?

Elsa was out in LA for Cochella. Bunch of fancy white rich chicks watching indie bands or some shit like that. Been gone just three days out on the West Coast and already she'd woken up hung over in some stranger's bed, naked and tousled and for the life of her she couldn't remember how she'd gotten here or the name of the girl laying next to her.

_What's the point in cheating, puta,_ Renee Montoya berated herself as she shoved her breasts into her bra and her gun and badge back onto her belt. _If you can't even remember it, neh?_

"You leaving already?" a groggy voice groaned from the bed. She'd sat up, milk-white skin stark against the dark silk sheets, cherry-red tresses, svelte figure with tits and a face that screamed plastic surgery just like the house stank of rich people. Exhibit A. People vs. Montoya. You're so goddamned lonely and desperate you can't even keep it in your pants, can't keep your hands off their tits. _You're a fucked up cunt, girl. Just admit it to yourself. _

"Yeah," Montoya grunted, looking away as she buttoned up her GCPD shirt. "Gotta go."

"Well, you can protect and service me anytime, Detective," the girl grinned coyly, pulling a familiar yellow slip from the bedside, pushing it down between her parted thighs and against her skin, lips parting into a pout at the touch. She had that tight core and taut skin from years of yoga, and a smooth, soft, hairless mons like a prepubescent kid. Chick either waxed or lasered, Montoya found herself thinking, followed bitterly by _guess you're one of those cops now, cunt. Gordon shouldn't never have trusted you…_

"Yeah. See you." she said, self-loathing eating her away. She wanted to leave. Didn't want to watch little miss perky trust fund here masturbating herself with the DUI ticket she'd scrapped in return for the sex. But she couldn't lie and say the sight didn't make her wet, that she didn't want to throw herself back in bed, didn't want to be the one performing that erotic touch…

"No goodbye kiss?" daddy's girl here teased.

She'd already fucked her. Already given her a pass on a felony for a night tangled up in her sheets. Already thrown away a three year relationship with Elsa for a night of drinking and fucking with whoever the hell she was. What was one more kiss?

…but it wasn't just a kiss. It never was. Once her hands had found that creamy skin again, fingers buried in her dyed hair, lips pressed against hers she just couldn't help herself. She never could. But the worst part was she couldn't come, now matter how hard she tried. The guilt was just too much.

It'd been before sunrise when she'd first slipped out of bed, ready to hide her sins and face another day on the beat. It was nine thirty when she left, late for work with the stink of sex on her, and enough daylight to see the pictures in the entryway on her long, stumbling walk of shame.

Boyfriend. It figured. She'd thrown away her decency, her self-respect, Gordon's trust and everything the badge ever meant to her for a one night stand with some shit-faced white slut who wasn't even gay. Feigned bicuriosity was such a small price to pay for a get out of jail free card.

_You've been had, puta. You've been used._ And the worst part was, it wasn't even one of Meroni's traps. That pimp had been known to hire girls to beg favors, then own the dumbass stupid enough to trade sex for a blind eye. No, no this fucking shitstorm was her doing. And that made it even worse. Refusing Meroni she could've at least played the hero, turned herself in, confessed the crime…

But now she couldn't even garner absolution. Not even from herself.

"Rough night?" Crispus asked her as she slumped into her chair.

"Yeah," Renee Montoya sighed. "Fuck me."


	2. Chapter 2

"You seen this Zsasz thing?" Allen asked her over lunch, brooding over the Gotham Gazette. Only black man she knew who read the papers, all of 'em. The Daily Planet, Washington Post, The Gaurdian. Hell. Nothing as terrifying as a well-educated man speaking MBV, Crispus Allen liked to joke.

"So some guy decides to rat out on Big Red One," she shrugged. "Surprised he's still alive." Carmide Falconi had a lot of nicknames in the GCPD, and a reach longer than the rumors of his dick. You didn't turn state on the Falconi family and get away with it.

"It's how he's getting his in-house protection that worries me," Allen growled through his sandwich. Turkey on rye. With lettuce and tomato. Doré had him watching his cholesterol again, then…

"Yeah, 'mano?"

"Governor Kane."

"No shit?" she sipped her coke. "Thought he was in Falconi's pocket." Yeah, throat deep is more like.

"No shit, girl. But Kane's daughter went missing all those years ago, and our friend Zsasz says he knows where to find the body." Cold case. Carlotta Kane. Rich Gotham heiress goes missing, never solved. Remind you of anyone?

You had to be brave to ask yourself the scary questions. "So why hasn't Falconi turned on him yet?"

"That's what makes this thing such a motherfucker. Ain't nobody know. It's a power play, 'Nay. And it's got Finch shitting his pants."

Yeah. And Dawes, that lithe little ADA. She'd like to see what that little waif of a woman had in her pants or under her dress…Dawes might've been an A cup at best, but she wore a silk blouse like she'd been born in it.

Hell. Elsa'd only been gone three days and she'd already fucked another girl, and here she was fantasizing about a third. She couldn't do long distance. Couldn't keep focused to save her life…or her relationships. But the cheating and the fucking and the guilt were better than the pills and choking on your own damn vomit, better than going home and putting a bullet through your brain. So Renee Montoya fucked women.

…a lot of women.

She sighed. Wiped ketchups stains and the last traces of another woman's lipstick from her face, stared down at the shitty, smeared napkin and wished her sins would wash off as easily. So pigs could really fucking fly, then. And not just the GCPD kind in helicopters, either. Kane crossing Falconi? For once the Roman's reach grasping up short? This she had to see.

"You know what I say, Crispus?"

"I look like I want your damned opinion, woman?" his white teeth flashed in his wide, easy smile.

"I say it's about time someone looked into Carlotta Kane again." Big Daddy Kane was a dying old man, and he'd do anything for the chance to see or bury his little girl before he kicked it.

Hundreds of kids in Gotham went missing every year. Most were never found. There were over five dozen current open cases just this month, most of them minorities, and all of them unnoticed, and every single damned cop, PI, and fucking amateur conspiracy theoriest in Kane County was still out chasing leads on the Wayne kid before WE went public. And now here she was, investigating the disappearance of some lost little rich bitch from over a decade before.

Equality, her ass.


End file.
